Plumage
by Trumpeteer34
Summary: Wing!Fic - After being hit in battle, Clint finds himself stuck in wing-form. Without the use of his hands for the next few day, he struggles to perform everyday tasks like opening doors or grooming his wings, and has no desire to ask for help. When Bruce offers his assistance, however, Clint is reluctant to refuse. Developing relationship. Fluffy Hulkeye.
1. Plumage

From the kinkmeme: Any/Clint: Arms-into-Wings: _Rather than sprouting wings from the shoulderblades, Clint's arms are his wings, which is why his upper body is so strong._

_Something happens (injury or magic?) which leads to him staying in winged form for longer than usual and he is utterly frustrated with his lack of hands. Any helps distract him._

I went with Bruce/Clint, because I love me some Hulkeye.

I do not own any of the named characters present. They belong to Marvel. This was written purely for fun.

* * *

**Plumage**

Feeling slowly began to return to him, and with it a sort of drowsy coherency that allowed him to make some sense of the world beyond his closed eyelids. The more he started to wake up, though, the more Clint wanted to just return into the gentle embrace of slumber.

_"…think he's waking up…"_

He didn't immediately recognize the reverberating voice, but it was familiar enough to let him relax. His eyes scrunched more tightly shut as he took stock of himself. There was what felt like a poorly cushioned mattress beneath him, and it was then he realized he was flat on his back. A slightly softer pillow was resting beneath his head, and his arms were splayed off to either side of his body.

"Clint?" the voice called him gently.

The archer's eyelids cracked open just enough to peek at whoever it was speaking to him. When he spotted a bespectacled face standing nearby, staring intently at him, he realized who had been calling him.

Sure enough, the exhausted-looking form of Bruce Banner slowly came into focus, wearing a slightly worried expression as he stared straight back at him. Clint figured he should have been more concerned with the expression, but he was still really tired and kind of hoping he could just fall back asleep.

But when he closed his eyes again, there was a sharp reproof. _"Hawkeye."_ He couldn't ignore the owner of _that_ voice.

"'m up, Tasha, 'm up," he grumbled to the redheaded assassin nearby, and slowly tried to drag himself to awareness. He lifted an arm to rub at his face—

Instead of the fingers he expected, feathers brushed against his cheek.

Clint's eyes snapped back open and he stared at where his hand should have been. Sure enough, he was met with the reddish brown plumage of one of his wings. He sat up without the aid of his arms with ease, abdominal muscles easily pulling his upper body upright, and stared at his right arm, currently in wing-form. A quick glance at his left revealed that both his arms were in wing-form.

He realized belatedly that he was sitting in the medical wing in the tower, and that either Bruce or Natasha had rolled over two other gurneys so that his wings could rest easily spread open. The feathers on both appendages were rustled and no longer aligned with precision.

They should have been his arms he was staring at.

Normally, this wouldn't have been a big deal. The last thing he remembered was gliding over the battlefield, providing the team with an aerial view of the fight. He recalled a burst of warmth hitting him square in the chest, and after that, nothing.

So he had been lying here for an indeterminate amount of time, unconscious, and hadn't transformed back to his natural form. They should have changed back when he was out…

He focused on reverting his wings back into his arms, but the feathers did not recede.

Before he could demand to know what had happened and why he couldn't transform, Bruce softly cleared his throat. The archer's eyes darted to the physicist.

"One of today's enemies managed to fire a shot of something at you during the battle," Bruce explained quietly. "You've been unconscious for about three hours now. Tony and I looked at the weapon you were shot with. Whatever you were hit with, it's temporary."

"How temporary?" Clint asked, the words coming out a little more fiercely than he had intended.

Bruce didn't flinch away from the harshness of the inquiry. "By our estimates, no longer than 48 hours."

Clint felt his eyes widen, and he tried again to transform back into his normal, human, arm-ed being, but again, nothing happened. He was stuck in this form for what could be two more days.

Something must have appeared on his face, for Bruce suddenly looked slightly worried again. "Clint?" he asked softly.

Immediately, Clint felt his expression close off, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He got shakily to his feet, still feeling the effects of whatever had hit him running through his system. He was exhausted, his arms were starting to get sore, and he just wanted to sleep in his own bed right now.

Natasha reached out to steady him, but Clint shook her off with a grumble. "I've got it," he said.

The assassin simply quirked an eyebrow at him, but otherwise remained silent. The two stared each other down for a long moment. He was vaguely aware of the physicist somewhere off to the side shifting awkwardly, but he paid the man no mind. He didn't want to be in medical anymore, and he sure as hell wanted to be somewhere alone.

Natasha, whose secret superpower was probably the ability to read his thoughts, finally broke the hush. "Did you leave your door open?" she asked, like she already knew the answer.

She probably did, because when Clint realized the answer, he got pissed off. He had shut the door that morning, like he did every morning.

And right now, he didn't have a means of opening it without his hands.

He let out a frustrated noise and shot a look over at Bruce, who was trying to look busy by going over some notes on a clipboard. "Anything I need, doc?" he asked.

Bruce looked over at him, ignoring the wings in favor of meeting the archer's eyes. "No," he answered, "just get some more sleep."

With that, Clint nodded and moved off with Natasha close behind. Much to his annoyance, the door to the medical room was closed, and the assassin had to open it for him. JARVIS, thankfully, automatically opened the door to the elevator and didn't need to be prompted to raise the lift to the floor with Clint's suite. He was hardly helpless without his hands, but it was still frustrating to be at the mercy of a doorknob. Natasha didn't say anything about it, for which he was grateful, and she left his door ajar so he could come and go as he pleased without needing anyone to come open the door for him.

Ugh…it was going to be a long two days…

* * *

After sleeping soundly for the remainder of the evening, all the way through the night, and well into the morning, Clint came upon his next problem. He thanked whoever had changed him out of his uniform and into a pair of sweats, because there was absolutely _no_ way he could manage a zipper right now, and there was no way in _hell_ he was about to call someone to help him with _this._

He did his business—albeit a little awkwardly, but still successfully and with some small amount of dignity—and wrestled to get the sweats situated back on his hips. Once he had managed that and gave a small laugh of victory, he realized he was _really_ hungry.

And there came problem number two.

He glanced down at the feathery appendages at his sides, the plumage now rustled a bit more from his sleep and hurting a bit more than yesterday. His mouth drew back into a frown as he sadly eyed the feathers that he _really_ wanted to fix, and his stomach gave a grumble.

At last, he sighed and resigned himself to ask someone for help in getting something to eat. _Just_ getting something, _not_ helping him eat. He'd eat straight off the plate before he let someone feed him.

Clint cast his eyes at the mirror, taking in his rumpled reflection and the sour look on his face. His eyes went over his wings, and he spread them out to study the reflected image. A small sound of dismay escaped from him as he took in the sorry state of his wings, and he quickly folded them again, returning them to his sides.

He flushed the toilet with his foot and exited the bathroom.

* * *

As he made his way up to the communal floor that housed the kitchen, he made up his mind to try getting himself fed on his own before he resigned himself to defeat and asking for help. Thankfully, there were no doors that needed opposable thumbs to open, and Tony's AI handled the elevator without needing instruction.

He was hoping that the kitchen would be empty, as it was late in the morning. Normally the group would have come through a few hours ago for breakfast, and then they were off doing their own things or training together.

He really should have known that he was just never that lucky.

As he turned the corner, he paused in the doorway of the kitchen. Seated at the table was Bruce, slightly hunched over a cup of tea and a science journal and still looking tired. The man usually did after a transformation into the Hulk, as he would usually pass out for hours afterward to sleep off the strain of the change.

Suddenly, Clint felt mildly guilty. Bruce had neglected his own health and fatigue to help the archer while he was still passed out after the battle, and he hadn't thanked him. "You're up late," he said, announcing his presence.

Bruce glanced up at the sound of another voice and noticed the archer in the doorway. His eyes darted to Clint's arms for a second before they returned to his face. "So are you," the physicist offered. "Were you able to sleep alright?"

Clint nodded in return and stepped into the kitchen. "Well enough," he replied. With his foot, he drew the chair next to Bruce's out from the table and sat himself down, careful to not jostle his aching wings too much.

He must have made a face again, for Bruce was suddenly studying him rather intently. "Do they hurt?" he asked, gesturing down at the reddish brown wings.

Instinctually, Clint drew his wings in tighter against his body, ignoring the discomfort. But when he saw nothing hostile about Bruce's expression and realized that the man next to him was genuinely concerned, he let out a soft exhale and looked away. "They're just not groomed properly right now," he answered softly, sounding vaguely embarrassed, "and I _can't_ fix them."

The air between the two of them was silent for a long moment. Clint was positively helpless to help himself, and absolutely _loathing_ every second of this, until—

"May I?"

The archer's head snapped up so quickly that some of his vertebrae cracked. His piercing blue-grey eyes shot straight to Bruce. The physicist was watching him closely and hadn't moved from his position over his tea and book, but he really did look like he earnestly wanted to help. Clint's eyes darted across Bruce's features for a long moment.

Finally—without looking away from Bruce—he slowly lifted one of his wings away from his torso and opened it fully. His full wingspan was something to be reckoned with; even with only one wing spread, the tips of his wing's primary feathers brushed against the wall of cabinets behind the physicist.

Bruce, surprisingly, held his gaze for a long time before he turned to study the wing with the rumpled feathers. He slipped on his glasses and just stared for a long time, not making any movements or offering any words. Clint watched him closely.

At last, the other man slowly brought his hands up and ran them gingerly over the inside of his wing, fingers brushing lightly across coverts and main flying feathers. The gentleness shouldn't have surprised the archer. Still, he felt touched that Bruce was being so gentle, so reverent of his wing.

"I've never had a chance to see your wings up close before," Bruce said softly without looking away. His clever fingers righted one of the stray feathers, and Clint drew a quiet breath in response.

Bruce looked quickly over at Clint's face, looking fearful that he had hurt the archer. Clint offered a reassuring smile; he had been caught off-guard by how nice Bruce's fingers felt on his plumage.

The scientist gingerly fixed another feather and was rewarded with another soft exhale from the archer. Bruce smiled to himself and kept his fingers lightly roving over the reddish-brown feathers, carefully straightening a vane here and tucking a feather back into place there.

While the man worked, Clint felt his eyelids lowering as he relaxed into Bruce's treatment. The feathers on the extended wing started to fluff up, silently encouraging the other man to continue. Bruce chuckled lowly to himself, but didn't stop. The ministrations felt wonderful. Forgotten was his hunger; all he could focus on was gentle touch of Bruce's fingers and how the discomfort had melted entirely away, leaving nothing but pleasant ripples coursing through his wing.

"They really are beautiful," he vaguely heard Bruce compliment.

He couldn't really offer anything more than a hum in response, as Bruce began gently pulling any foreign debris he had picked up during the battle yesterday. The man was honest-to-God grooming him, and he couldn't find it in himself to protest, not when he was feeling this good.

When the fingers drew away, Clint slowly opened his eyes back up and lifted his head (when had he bowed his head?) to look at Bruce. The physicist pulled himself up from his seat, and Clint tried not to make a noise of protest.

But when Bruce sat down in the chair on Clint's other side and looked pointedly at him, the archer grinned lazily and extended his other wing. As the physicist started gently preening and grooming his other wing, Clint peeked at his cleaned and straightened wing. It was still poofy, and gentle waves of comfort and pleasure still rippled out from the edges of his feathers all the way back into his powerful shoulder and back muscles.

They sat in silence together, save for the occasional happy noise that would escape from Clint's throat. He was too relaxed to feel embarrassed by such noises, and Bruce only smiled fondly each time they managed to sneak past his lips. He really liked seeing Bruce smile.

When Bruce finally finished straightening up his other wing, Clint shivered in pleasure. "_Why_ have you been hiding such a wonderful talent?" he asked, sounding more relaxed than he could remember.

Another quiet chuckle escaped from Bruce as he stood, and he lightly ran both hands over where the base of each wing connected to Clint's torso. He didn't say anything for a long moment, just letting his hands massage the muscles there. Clint let out an appreciative noise and leaned forward in his seat, letting both puffed out wings relax and simply relishing the delightful touch.

"What are you hungry for?" Bruce asked after several minutes of massaging Clint's upper back and neck.

"Who says 'm hungry?" Clint managed to get out, just barely.

"Your actions, when you walked into the kitchen earlier," Bruce answered easily.

Clint huffed a quiet laugh. "Fine. I'm hungry."

"I think we've already established that," the physicist quipped in a softly playful tone. He finally withdrew his hands. "What are you hungry for?"

The archer remained leaned forward for another moment after the touch was gone, and then slowly sat up. He turned his drowsy eyes to Bruce and smiled up at him. "Seriously, man, you can preen me anytime, anywhere."

He beamed when a light blush colored Bruce's cheeks, and the physicist cleared his throat, looking mildly flustered. He decided to stop toying around with the scientist. "Cereal's fine, thanks."

A few minutes later, the two of them sat at the table, Clint happily munching on his breakfast proffered from a spoon that Bruce held up in intervals. The scientist wasn't paying Clint much mind as he continued to read from the science journal, for which the archer was grateful. It didn't feel so much like he was being fed, as Bruce wasn't actively holding the spoon to Clint's mouth. The man would simply dip the spoon into the bowl and hold it up for Clint to eat from whenever he was ready. It felt more like a team effort instead of a teammate feeding another helpless teammate.

Then again, the relaxed feeling could have just been the result of an _amazing_ session with Bruce's hands.

As he took the offered cereal from Bruce's spoon, he glanced over at the man. He nudged him gently with a wing. "Thanks," he said around the cereal in his mouth when the physicist looked up.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Bruce gently scolded him, but there was nothing but fondness in his voice.

* * *

A/N: This is currently part of an ongoing series of one-shots over at AO3. If enough of you would like to read more, I'll post the other one-shots as chapters to this story. Thanks for reading!


	2. Aerials

Here is one-shot number 2

AU: Wing!fic - Clint's arms turn into wings. On a whim, Clint decides to show his affection to an unknowing Bruce Banner the best way he knows how.

I do not own any of the named characters present. They belong to Marvel. This was written purely for fun.

* * *

**Aerials**

It had been several weeks since Bruce had helped Clint when he had been stuck in wing-form. The physicist had assisted the archer without prompting or comment, for which Clint had been extremely thankful. Since then, the pair had been spending more and more time together, and it was really, really nice.

There had been a small pang of sadness that had gone through the archer when Bruce had looked honestly surprised by Clint's sudden attention, but the scientist had welcomed the archer's company with open arms. They hung out together a great deal since then. Clint would visit the other man in the labs, and Bruce would watch Clint in the target range.

Clint felt iffy about asking Bruce to preen his wings again; as amazing as it had felt (and good _God,_ had it felt amazing), it just didn't seem like the sort of thing that _friends_ did together. He would still go to Bruce when his wings were stiff or sore, and Bruce would always smile and do the whole preening/grooming/massaging thing again without a word of complaint. The more it happened, the more Clint had to fight from asking for more of it. It was physically painful _not_ to approach the physicist more often, but it felt weird.

He was starting to feel weird in general around Bruce, but it was the good kind of weird…the kind that made his stomach flip and sent a rushing feeling through him, like he was flying. He didn't know how to explain it, but he liked the heady feeling and had started to crave it almost as much as he craved for the feel of Bruce's hands on him again.

* * *

It had been a quiet two weeks. There had been no calls to action, and they've only had a few team practices. The Avengers had just finished up their group breakfast, and Clint found himself staring out the window. It was a gorgeous day, not a cloud in the morning sky. Winter had finally ended, and it was starting to warm up again at long last. Spring was just around the corner.

Clint suddenly decided that he needed to stretch his wings. He felt like he had been cooped up for way too long inside and he yearned to be in the air again.

As the rest of the team left the room, he turned to Bruce, who was still sitting next to him at the kitchen table. "Anything pressing down in the labs?" he asked the other man.

Bruce glanced over at him with a small smile and shook his head. "Not really," he answered with an easy shrug. "I just have some reading to do."

The archer grinned. "Wanna do it outside?"

The physicist's eyes moved to the nearby window as he gauged the weather. "Sure," he replied.

After springing eagerly to his feet, Clint led the other man toward the door to the balcony. It led to Iron Man's landing strip, so there was plenty of walking room. There was still a brisk chill in the air, but it would warm up as the day progressed.

As Bruce settled in with his science journal ("light reading?" Clint had quipped. Bruce's answering smile had done funny things to his stomach.), Clint pulled off his hoodie. He was wearing a dark muscle shirt, so there wasn't any fabric to get in the way of his wings. As he stretched his bare arms out, he took a deep breath of the air.

Before long, Clint was up in the air, riding thermals until he was soaring high over Manhattan.

The archer flapped a little higher before he started hovering lazy circles around the tower, relishing the wind in his feathers and the warm sun on his face. His sharp eyes surveyed the streets below, but time and time again, he kept finding that his eyes always returned to Bruce.

The physicist was engrossed in his reading, glasses perched on the end of his nose and posture relaxed. He had dragged one of the lawn chairs out of the shade and into the sunlight, allowing the light to keep him warm. At some point, he had pushed his sleeves to his elbows, revealing the dark hair that lined his arms.

Bruce must have felt he was being watched, for he suddenly broke away from his journal and squinted up at Clint. The man's eyesight wasn't nearly as good as Clint's, so he probably didn't see the blinding grin that crossed the archer's face.

He continued to stare as Bruce glanced at his watch. The physicist then carefully closed his book, making sure to mark his page, before he pulled himself to his feet and headed to the door. Had the man not left behind his book and glasses, Clint would have frowned.

By the time he had circled the building again, Bruce was back. The physicist was standing with a water bottle in one hand, the other in his pocket. His face was upturned, eyes lifted to the sky. When he spotted Clint, he smiled and waggled the bottle.

Clint grinned and moved to descend, but immediately paused. An idea struck him, and his stomach flipped giddily. He smiled, full and bright, and then looked back down at Bruce, who was still watching him from the balcony with a content smile on his face.

With another grin, Clint turned sharply in the air and dove straight at Bruce, shooting along at break-neck speeds. Before they collided, he veered off and pulled up, slowing down with a great gust from his massive wings. As he landed, he glanced over his shoulder and tried to stifle a grin. Bruce looked a little startled, but he was grinning a little, too.

"What was that?" Bruce asked with a laugh.

Clint grinned at the other man as his wings swiftly reverted back into his arms. "Oh, y'know," he deflected with a shrug, "just felt the urge."

Bruce didn't question it, but he smiled and handed over the bottle of water. "You've been up there for almost two hours."

After he offered his thanks, Clint took a hearty swig from the bottle. "I've been cooped up for way too long," he replied easily. He smiled and took another drink. "Thanks!"

Before Bruce could say more, Clint dropped the bottle and sprinted to the edge of the balcony. His arms rapidly changed, and he dove off the building.

The wind rushed over him as he let himself fall, grinning like a maniac the entire time, before he changed the angle of his wings and started looping around the building. A few mighty beats of his wings sent him skyward again, and he flew by the balcony at a rapid speed.

A quick glance back revealed that Bruce was still watching him, looking equal parts concerned and amused. That weird feeling returned to his stomach. Clint smirked to himself and then started a series of aerials that put a delicious burn through his muscles and a wonderful feeling of elation through him.

He caught a momentary second of some other expression on Bruce's face, but it disappeared far too quickly for the archer to analyze.

* * *

Much to Clint's annoyance, there came a call to assemble around noon that day. Normally, the archer would have been excited for a chance to see some action, but today it irritated him. He was in the _middle_ of something, something _really_ important!

And he had been interrupted for one of the most ridiculous battles he had ever assisted in.

Crawling all over the city was some hybrid reptile/insect…_things._ While these creatures were fairly breakable and easily killed, there were hundreds of them. Some nut had released them into the city, spouting the normal monologue about world domination. Natasha had easily knocked out said nut, and the Avengers were left wrangling with the rest of the nasty creatures infesting Manhattan.

Clint was flying from building to building, offering an overhead view of the situation while in the air. He would then perch on a roof and quickly transform back so he could handle his bow. Since he was still pissed off about being interrupted, he barely listened to Stark's voice over the radio frequency, complaining about being bored and his name not being _Iron Exterminator._

He was holding back a chuckle as Steve started telling Tony off, but was distracted when he spotted the Hulk down below. The big guy was effortlessly taking out the creatures and getting himself covered in a really nasty looking gunk, but he seemed perfectly happy to be out and smashing.

Clint grinned to himself, suddenly feeling better. He shouldn't let such a mediocre fight interrupt him! He could continue was he had been doing while fighting, no sweat.

He quickly fired an arrow at the thing Hulk was about to destroy.

As the Hulk looked up with a grumble, Clint was already in the air and diving down toward the goliath. At the last second, he swerved off and moved on to the next building. Once he landed, he turned to see the Hulk eyeing him curiously in between smashing the hybrids.

The archer smiled; that same feeling from earlier that morning came back to him.

Each time he needed to get to a different building after that, he made sure to swoop by the Hulk on his way there. He would then expertly loop in the air and land on the next building. He snuck peeks down at the Hulk each time and smirked, pleased to see the Hulk's eyes on him.

Hours later—_hours_—they killed off the final creature, and the battle was _finally_ over. It was well into the evening by the time they had finished. Steve asked Clint to do one last circle around the warzone just to ensure that they got all of the hybrids before they all reconvened.

Clint landed easily and without flair next to Natasha. There was a steady burn in his arms now, and he knew immediately that he'd be sore as all hell tomorrow. Despite that and the fatigue that was starting to catch up with him, though, he felt really good.

The others looked just as tired as he felt. He grinned at the quirked brow the redheaded assassin sent him before he started to look around for the Hulk.

He heard the steady thumping of the big guy's massive feet and followed that. By the time he reached the goliath, he caught the tail-end of the transformation. Bruce wasn't unconscious, but it was a near thing. He was shivering on the ground as his muscles deflated back to normal and the last of the green vanished.

The archer approached the panting man, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the stench of the hybrid guts that covered most of Bruce's bare skin. He watched the man's eyes slowly brink open as he was catching his breath.

When Bruce's eyes found Clint, an exhausted smile crossed his face. "Nice flyin'," he slurred groggily.

Despite the roughness and hoarseness of his voice, Clint heard a hint of fondness in the words, and smiled.

* * *

After spending a good hour and a half cleaning up in the tower (seriously, those things were _gross_), the team came together on the communal floor for their customary after-battle movie and meal. Debriefing was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, for which they were all grateful. It hasn't been a particularly difficult battle, but it had been _long._ They were all wiped out.

They tore into the pizzas Tony had ordered and started the movie, but when Bruce had finished eating, he excused himself to go pass out in his room for the next several hours. Tony decried of Bruce's betrayal for leaving him behind, and Bruce just smiled indulgently at the engineer. Before he left, though, Bruce's eyes locked with Clint's for a lingering moment, long enough to make the archer's belly flip anxiously.

Clint watched the physicist leave as everyone else got back to the film, feeling all kinds of conflicted. Once Bruce disappeared behind the elevator doors, he turned back around and realized Natasha was staring at him.

When their eyes met, she quirked an eyebrow at him. He returned the gesture, and she pointedly glanced at the elevator, and then back at him. At her expectant stare, Clint realized that she had already caught on to what he felt toward Bruce. He fought off a flush and forced his eyes to return to the screen. After about a minute, he felt Natasha do the same.

But he couldn't concentrate on the movie. He sat rigidly for less than three minutes before he stood up. He didn't offer any excuses as he left the room, and the others didn't expect it. As he was walking, he felt Natasha's eyes on his back.

Before long, he found himself outside of Bruce's suite. The door had been left open, and the archer cautiously knocked on the doorframe before entering. The room beyond looked like it did any other time Clint came through here: nearly immaculate, save for the books and notepads littering some of the surfaces.

He smiled a little at the sight before he made his way back toward the bedroom, finding that door standing ajar. After taking a deep breath, he rapped lightly against the door and pushed it open.

He found Bruce lying on his side on the massive bed, curled up under the blankets and on the edge of sleep. The physicist's eyes opened and he peered drowsily across the room, easily finding Clint.

The two stared at each other for a lingering moment before Bruce smiled. "You look tuckered out," he said in a sleepy murmur.

Taking that as an invitation into the room, Clint stepped just inside the doorway and halted there. "I haven't heard anyone use the phrase _tuckered out_ in a really long time," he commented with forced casualness.

Bruce yawned into a fist. "Must've been all of that showing off in the air today." A smirk appeared on the man's face when Clint suddenly colored a little.

"You noticed?" the archer asked, sounding both nervous and hopeful.

The physicist made a noise of affirmation as he nodded. He dragged his hand out from under the blanket and patted the mattress behind him. "You should sleep," he said.

When Clint didn't move, Bruce suddenly looked concerned. "…did I read all of this wrong?" he asked, looking mildly frightened and really self-conscious.

"No!" Clint said quickly and probably with too much force, but he absolutely _needed_ to reassure the other man. "No, I…" he cleared his throat and tried to find more to say to fill in the slightly awkward silence.

After another moment of the hush, Bruce smiled again and patted the bed once more. "It _is_ mating season, yes?" When Clint full-on blushed, Bruce chuckled. "You made yourself quite clear, Clint. Even the Other Guy caught on." He yawned into his hand again. "Now get over here before we both pass out."

With the red still on his cheeks, Clint grinned wide and crossed the room. He kicked off his boots before he slid carefully onto the bed behind Bruce. He left some space between himself and the warm body next to him; he wanted to move closer, but he refrained.

It made no difference, however, for Bruce rolled over—letting a pained noise escape from his aching and exhausted form—and curled a little closer to Clint. When their eyes met, Clint couldn't fight the huge smile that appeared on his face.

A smile touched Bruce's lips and he reached over to lightly run his fingers against Clint's arm, easily feeling the tense muscles beneath the skin. "We can do another wing massage tomorrow," he said sleepily as he closed his eyes.

A happy noise made it past Clint's lips, sounding almost like a chirp, and Bruce laughed softly, sounding almost hysterical with exhaustion. "I knew there was a reason I liked you," the archer said in response, sleep starting to tug at him.

He shifted a little closer; he waited for the man to protest, but Bruce already looked half-asleep. The archer smiled at the sight and brought a hand up to run lightly through Bruce's greying curls. A soft sigh of contentedness escaped from Bruce as he melted under the touch, and he curled a little more toward Clint's body.

Clint smiled again, and soon found himself falling asleep, feeling happier than he had in years.

* * *

A/N: The mating behavior of red-tailed hawks is weird.


	3. Morning After

One-shot number 3; this story is now current. AU: Wing!fic - Clint's arms turn into wings. Takes place immediately after "Aerials."

Clint and Bruce wake up and spend the morning together.

I do not own any of the named characters present. They belong to Marvel. This was written purely for fun.

* * *

**Morning After**

It was a little strange, sharing a bed before sharing a kiss, but Clint wasn't complaining. The main reason for that was probably due to the giddy feeling that went through him when he woke up with Bruce in his arms. The man was almost unnaturally warm, his body radiating heat that would drive out any chill, had there been a chill in the room. Clint actually quite liked the warmth and drew the sleeping man a little closer.

Something tickled his nose, and Clint scrunched his eyes more tightly shut before he finally allowed his eyelids to flutter open. It took him a moment to realize that a stray curl of greying-brown hair was swaying back and forth each time Clint inhaled and exhaled.

They had somehow gravitated more toward one another during the duration of the night. The archer was now lying on his back somewhere toward the middle of the bed, the covers pushed down so his arms were free to move in the open air.

Well, _one_ of his arms was free to move in the open air. His other arm was both pinned and wrapped around Bruce, who was curled up on his side against Clint. The man's head was resting on Clint's shoulder, tucked just right so that Clint's lips brushed against the crown of his head. The archer's hand was lying happily on the back of the shoulder that wasn't pressed against the mattress, like it belonged there.

Clint stared at his hand for a long time, fingers drumming a light pattern against Bruce's t-shirt, before he glanced down at where Bruce's hand was lying on his chest. The appendage in question was relaxed just below Clint's clavicle with the rest of his arm resting across Clint's chest and stomach. He could feel one of Bruce's legs thrown casually over one of Clint's and resting on the mattress.

Each breath Clint took made Bruce's arm rise and fall on his chest and the hair against his chin dance lightly with each exhale. With the angle they were in, Clint couldn't see Bruce's face, but he knew without a doubt that the man was still sleeping deeply. He wondered absently how long he had been asleep, but that thought was instantly set aside when Bruce curled a little more into Clint's side with a sleepy and unintelligible mumble.

The archer smiled and decided it wasn't important. He pressed his lips against Bruce's hair in a light kiss. When he felt Bruce's smile against his chest, another rush of contentedness warmed him, and Clint's eyes drifted shut once more.

* * *

The next time he awoke was only an hour or two later. It took him a moment to figure out why he had woken up, but he understood when he felt Bruce's head move just slightly, pressing a little more firmly into his shoulder.

Clint grinned and moved his chin so it was nestled in Bruce's hair again. "G'mornin'," he said softly, his voice rumbling and low with sleep.

Something that sounded vaguely like a drowsy greeting drifted to Clint's ears, but it was muffled by both sleep and the archer's shirt. Clint chuckled softly and let the hand resting on the physicist move into Bruce's hair to play with his curls.

"You're not much of a morning person," the archer observed, but he was still smiling.

"Shh…it's still dark enough to pretend it's not morning," Bruce mumbled, his voice just on the wrong side of rough.

"I think that's probably because JARVIS hasn't changed the window settings yet," Clint pointed out. "I'm sure the sun has been up for a while now."

_"Quite right,"_ the AI spoke up, though he sounded much quieter for some reason. _"The time is eleven thirty-seven AM and the skies are to remain cloudless until the mid-afternoon."_

Clint frowned slightly at that last tidbit of information, and then glanced between the still-darkened windows and down towards where Bruce's face was still pressed into his shoulder. Suddenly, it clicked. "Does Hulking out give you headaches?" he asked.

"Over-heightened senses," Bruce corrected without lifting his head. "It's not every time, but sunlight and I don't get along too well on the morning after a transformation." The physicist slowly rolled over onto his back. Clint's eyes were locked on his face, and despite the mask of indifference Bruce had tried to put up, the archer easily saw that the man was still in pain.

Once he was settled, Bruce glanced over at Clint with drowsy eyes and smiled. "I didn't think I'd see you when I woke up," he admitted.

"Why's that?" Clint asked as he moved onto his side and curled against Bruce, their positions flipped. "You're really comfortable, and ridiculously warm."

As his fingers sneaked their way back up into Bruce's hair, the physicist chuckled softly. "You're pretty comfortable yourself," Bruce replied. His eyes slipped shut as Clint began to play with his curls again. "I just figured you'd have been up and moving by now."

Clint continued to watch Bruce's face as he let his fingers fiddle absentmindedly with one of the curls before they dipped back in to trace lightly through the rest of his hair. "I was pretty tired, too, you know," he reminded the other man. "_Tuckered out_ is how you put it." He grinned at the small smile that started to tug on Bruce's lips at that.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, just soaking in the presence of the other in the calm hush of morning. The archer could feel Bruce's breathing evening out again and knew without a doubt that, if given the opportunity, Bruce would probably fall back asleep.

Clint blinked out of the doze he was starting to slip into and lifted his head off of Bruce's shoulder. "Hungry?" he asked, trying to fight the grin that wanted to appear as the physicist's eyes slowly fluttered open.

Without lifting his head from the pillow, Bruce glanced down at him. The smile that appeared across his face was fond, but tired. "I could eat," he replied.

"I can fix us something," Clint offered. "Meet me up in my apartment?" He raised his eyebrows into an expression of hopeful innocence.

He felt Bruce's chuckle before he heard it. "Let me shower, and then I'll be up," the physicist answered.

Clint smiled bright in response, but then neither of them made any effort to get out of bed.

"Then again," Bruce said after a few moments of comfortable silence, yawning into his fist, "I'm not sure I want to get up just yet."

"If you don't get up, you're not getting breakfast," Clint replied. He then made an example of himself by finally extracting his body from beneath the blankets. He was almost overwhelmed by the desire to curl back up into Bruce's warmth, but he resisted.

As Clint finally lifted himself off of the mattress to collect the boots he had kicked off last night, he could feel Bruce's eyes following him. The physicist stretched against the mattress, setting off a series of cracks and pops all throughout the man's back. "You do realize," Bruce began, sagging back into the mattress in semi-relief, "that I can just as easily make my own breakfast."

Clint paused in lacing his boot to shoot a pout over at the man, bottom lip jutted out.

Another soft laugh escaped from the physicist before Bruce carefully pushed himself up into a seated position, biting back a groan when his overtaxed muscles protested. He must have seen a look of concern appear on Clint's face, for Bruce smiled again. "I'll be there," he promised. "Just let me shower first."

"Will that help?" Clint asked, gesturing weakly at Bruce's body.

"Always does," Bruce answered, and then his smile transformed into a grin. "You could do with one yourself; your hair is a mess."

A huff of laughter escaped from Clint. "You're one to talk," he shot back, coming over to ruffle the man's mess of curls gently. "Half an hour?"

Bruce ducked his head to escape from Clint's hand, still grinning. "Half an hour," he agreed.

* * *

Clint popped up to the communal floor first before he returned to his own suite. He grabbed the ingredients for an omelet that he had made for Bruce before, a few weeks back, which the man had enjoyed. Before slipping out of the kitchen, he snagged the canister of loose-leaf tea that Bruce had recently bought, along with the infuser.

On his way back to the elevator, he bumped into Natasha. Her eyes did a quick survey of the state of his hair, then of the ingredients in his arms, and finally his face. "You two have fun last night?" she asked smoothly.

An easy grin spread across Clint's face. "We slept together," he answered. When she quirked an eyebrow, he rolled his eyes. "I mean that literally, Tasha. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a breakfast to make."

"You're making him breakfast?" the redhead inquired, a small smile touching her lips.

"I have before," Clint replied, grinning fully at her once more before he stepped into the elevator. "Don't you dare say anything to anyone!" he called back to her.

"Like I need to say anything for the rest of the team to find out," Natasha scoffed as the elevator doors started to close. "You were practically shouting it from the rooftops yesterday."

"Don't tell anyone!" Clint yelled back just as the doors slid shut, but he was grinning.

* * *

By the time Bruce knocked on his door twenty-some minutes later, Clint had the omelet about half-cooked. There was a fresh pot of coffee and a kettle of hot water on the stove, ready to be poured into the mug Bruce always used when he stopped by Clint's floor. He had taken a quick shower and thrown on a muscle shirt and jeans before he had started breakfast.

After taking a step back from the stove, Clint ran a hand through his still-damp hair and glanced at the opening door to his suite. They had moved past waiting to be granted entrance when the other expected company a long time ago, and smile immediately spread across his face as Bruce stepped inside.

The man did look a little better after his shower; he wasn't moving as stiffly as he had in bed that morning, but Clint's ever-perceptive eyes easily caught the tension held in the man's shoulders. His eyes then swiftly roved over the rest of Bruce's body, taking a note of how much he liked to see the physicist in that deep purple button-down shirt of his.

He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the stove before he could get too distracted. "Feeling better?" he asked.

"Much, thanks," Bruce answered as he stepped lightly into the kitchen. He took a quick survey of the room. "Need any help?"

"Nah," Clint replied. He nodded toward where the hot water was. "You can go ahead and start making your tea. This should be done here shortly."

Bruce made a humming sound, but didn't say anything. He moved further into the kitchen toward where the water was. As he passed behind the archer, he laid a warm hand against Clint's back.

The touch seemed almost hesitant, but Clint couldn't fight the smile that rose to his lips in result. He grinned over at Bruce, who relaxed and smiled back before he went about making his tea.

Breakfast was a casual affair. They had eaten together before, and they had cooked for each other plenty of times in the past, so nothing felt awkward about sharing a meal with one another.

Before Bruce could make the offer to do the dishes, Clint stood up and grabbed Bruce's empty mug. He poured the man some more tea and set it down in front of Bruce.

The physicist started to thank him, but immediately paused when he felt Clint's hands land gently on his shoulders. "Clint?" he asked, quickly tensing up.

"Relax," the archer replied softly as he began to gently massage the rock-hard muscles beneath his fingers. He went through a few of the movements he would go through to ease a sore muscle that he had pulled on a mission, keeping the touch constant. After a few moments, he started to feel some of the tension ease out of Bruce's body. "Just relax," he said again in encouragement, keeping his voice quiet.

A small, victorious grin spread on his face when Bruce slowly slumped in the chair, finally relaxing into Clint's ministrations. The physicist let out a long breath of air as he leaned his head forward.

Clint kept massaging the muscles in Bruce's shoulders, neck, and upper back (finally cursing the purple shirt for denying him full-on skin contact) until the stiffness began to ebb away. Even then, he kept his hands moving. Bruce wasn't emitting the same sounds that Clint would be making in the physicist's place, but he knew the man was enjoying it. There was a tranquil look on Bruce's face, eyes closed and features relaxed, and his breathing was deep and even.

Another smile crossed Clint's face, and his eyes slipped shut as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to the back of Bruce's neck, just below where his hairline ended. He heard the soft hitch in Bruce's breathing, and he let his hands come to a stop on the man's shoulders, gently resting his cheek against the small patch of skin between Bruce's hair and the collar of the shirt.

They spent a second like that, suspended in the moment that included nothing but the two of them. Bruce slowly started to lift and turn his head, moving as if to glance behind him and up at Clint. The archer moved with the physicist until his nose was pushed lightly against Bruce's cheekbone. Clint pressed another light kiss against the warm skin there.

Clint's eyes opened when he felt a hand gingerly caress his jaw. He looked down and immediately locked eyes with Bruce, who was staring straight back at him with an expression that was so achingly open it made his heart pound.

They both leaned in together.

The lips that met with Clint's were soft, so soft, soft like velvet. Even if it was only the corner of Bruce's mouth, it still felt like nothing else in the world mattered more in that moment than the soft press of his lips against Bruce's.

There was a sound of a soft breath, and Bruce tilted his head up to slot their mouths more properly together. The hand caressing Clint's cheek moved upward into the archer's hair as Clint melted into the kiss with a blissful sigh. Once he felt the physicist's fingers gently running over his scalp, his hands couldn't remain idle any longer. His fingers danced away from Bruce's shoulders to run down his sides, unable to stay still.

They broke apart for a single second as Bruce twisted in the chair to make the angle less awkward, and their lips immediately found each other's again. Everything narrowed to his sense of touch, and once a happy sigh managed to escape from Bruce, his sense of hearing. Clint rolled his jaw and let his tongue run across the physicist's bottom lip.

Access to Bruce's mouth was quickly granted with another happy sigh from the scientist, and Clint eagerly deepened the kiss. A feeling of elation went shooting through him when Bruce kissed him back just as eagerly. He relished the warmth and taste of Bruce against him and each patch of skin that Bruce ran his hands over felt overheated.

Finally, they had to pull apart again for a breath, and they both gasped quietly, filling their lungs with much needed air. They remained frozen like that, lips just barely brushing the other's, Bruce still sitting in the chair at the table and Clint behind him. When the archer finally opened his eyes again, he found Bruce's slowly fluttering open.

Their eyes met.

Clint was at a loss of how to break the silence. What do you say to someone after you've had your tongue down their throat, when you've been kissed senseless, when all you want to do is curl up in their warmth and spend an eternity wrapped together?

"Hey," he murmured against Bruce's lips, and then internally cringed because _that_ was the first word out of his mouth.

But Bruce smiled at him, so bright and full it lit up his entire face and crinkled the lines around his deep brown eyes, and Clint was struck by how gorgeous the man was. "Hey," Bruce replied tenderly. The word practically oozed with happiness.

A smile broke out across Clint's face, and he lightly dragged his hands away from Bruce's sides and back up to his shoulders. He gave them a quick squeeze. "Feel better?" he asked softly.

Bruce carefully rolled his shoulders, and a look of pleasant surprise appeared across his features. "Yeah, actually," he answered. "I feel much better."

Clint grinned, and then leaned more against the man, allowing his arms to wrap around Bruce's chest in a backward embrace. "Well, I think we just found something to add to your post-transformation ritual," he declared, his cheek pressed against Bruce's.

As if acting on their own accord, Bruce's hands immediately came up to rest lightly on Clint's arms. "Does that _something_ entail _everything_ that just happened?" he asked with a smile, and Clint chuckled in response, not bothering to answer verbally. The physicist's palms were deliciously warm against the archer's bare arms. Bruce's fingers traced a light pattern against Clint's skin, and they remained quiet, just relishing the feel of the other against their body.

After a few minutes had passed in that fashion, Bruce gently patted Clint's arms. "Your turn," he said.

Clint immediately grinned. He pulled himself off of Bruce and stood upright, but then leaned in again and pressed a heated kiss to Bruce's unsuspecting lips. It was a brief kiss, but it still left them both flushed and grinning a little like fools when Clint pulled away again.

The archer quickly moved to the seat next to Bruce. As he sat down, his arms transformed swiftly into his wings, spread open and taking up almost the entire kitchen.

Bruce chuckled softly as he reached for the tea Clint had set down a few minutes ago. "Eager, aren't we?" he asked after a sip, sending an amused smile the archer's way.

Clint grinned, not feeling the least bit abashed. "You have _no idea_ how good this feels, man," he replied.

Bruce hummed and let his fingers slowly begin to run lightly over the feathers on the wing next to him. He smiled more fully as Clint sighed softly and immediately began to relax. "I have some idea," he rejoined quietly.

* * *

A/N: It is one of my hard-wired head canons that Bruce Banner is like a furnace, that the gamma radiation boosted his average body temperature by a few degrees, and is now constantly radiating warmth.

Not much in the way of wing!fic here, but I wanted something that focused a little more on Bruce.

I'm really loving this series...I hope you guys are, too. Thanks for reading!


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